And the River Keeps on Running
by Owlishian
Summary: When Berwald, a swedish, newly qualified doctor arrives in a remote part of Denmark, he finds a young man who seems to be suffering from a strange wound. The man's name is Mathias, and nobody will give Berwald answers as to what happened to him... DenSu.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: English is unfortunately not my first language - I apologise for any mistakes, grammatical, OOC-related or otherwise ouo. I have done my best to be at least _somewhat_ historically accurate, but don't expect too much. Set somewhere vaguely during the 1700th-1800th century in the days before anaesthetic.

Chapter 1

Berwald felt like the world was against him, or at least like it didn't care for him in the slightest. He looked disaprovingly at the landscape around him as if his dirty boots were the fault of the ground, or his ruffled clothes the fault of some sentinent wind that bothered only him. He disliked the country already. He had been traveling through it for little more than two weeks, but he already missed the mountains and hills of his home. Those found here were only shadows of his homeland's, as were the forest and the animals. No great owls screeched during the night; there was only the smallest of the species peeking through the holes of ruined walls, some of them no more than small balls of down and feather left alone in the nest.

Berwald sighed as he remembered Sweden, but he also knew that it was too late to turn around now. He continued down the road, tightening his grip on the black suitcase he held in his right hand. It contained most of the tools of his trade, with the rest located in the pockets of his long, navy-blue coat.  
He saw the first signs of what passed for civilisation around these countryside parts of Denmark - the fences and stones that marked the edges of fields alongside fresh tracks from horses and cattle. Soon the straw rooftops appeared. As he came closer, he could see the shapes of people moving under the shade of the oak that stood in the square. A circle of stone surrounded the tree's trunk, and Berwald knew that the men of age in the village would gather there to hold _ting_ and discuss whatever subjects that needed to be discussed. Probably just farming, Berwald thought. He understood the charm one could find in the rhythm of season and the work of one's hands, but it seemed a bit too boring to do for a living.

Then, he saw a woman standing still. She was waiting, he realized, for him. He hurried towards her, and as soon as he was within hearing range, she asked him, "Are you the doctor?"

Berwald nodded quickly and made a gesture to shake her hand, but she was already walking away from him and towards one of the nearby houses. Berwald judged that it was the smallest or second smallest of the seven or eight he saw in the village. It was the house of a farmer, built as one long square and divided into two parts: one for the humans and one for the animals. Berwald followed the woman. As soon as he ducked under the low doorway, he felt the heat that filled the small room. The fire was roaring even though it was late August, and together with the smell of sickness and blood, it made the room thoroughly unpleasant.

Berwald was led to a bed where he could see a vague shape, covered by layers upon layers of cloth and furs. An old man with greying hair sat beside it. He didn't seem to notice the doctor's arrival, so Berwald raised his voice.

"May I see th' patient?"

The man said nothing, but stood up and walked slowly towards his wife. There was a quick conversation in a danish dialect that Berwald couldn't understand well enough to catch more than a few words. Instead, he concentrated on the bed in front of him as he began removing the layers, starting with the coarse cloth that was pulled up so it almost covered the head, as if the person was dead already. It revealed a male face, one that Berwald would have called beautiful under other circumstances. As it was now, the young man in front of him was clearly malnourished and running a fever – his hair was messy and damp from sweat while his lips were cracked and dry, his mouth slightly open.

"What... were you trying t' do?" Berwald asked the woman, whom he presumed was the mother. She answered shakily and slowly once she heard the accent in his voice.

"Sweat out the sickness," she said, "Burning herbs."

Berwald laid a hand on the patients forehead. There was certainly sweat, but the strained breathing and weak pulse made it clear that it was all but healthy.

"Stop th' fire," he said. He saw how the mother began the task out of the corner of his eye.

"You there," he continued, speaking to the father, "what's th' problem with 'im?"

The man only stammered. "L-leg," he finally said.

Soon Berwald was staring at the source of at least one of the problems – there, on the man's left leg near the shin was a large wound. It was clearly deep and had bled much, but that what not what worried the doctor the most. The wound has become infected to the point that it was now red and inflamed, with long stripes of reddish-purple spreading through the veins up and down the leg.

Berwald looked away from the body for a brief moment as he gathered what he needed from his suitcase. The wound would have to be throughly cleaned, he thought, and he would need to make an incision through some of the most inflamed areas to do so. Without turning around, he once again raised his voice; "Do you 'ave any Garlic? Thyme?"

He heard them talk quickly again, then the door opened and closed. He cleansed his scalpel with a compound form his baggage and began working. The young man was too far gone in fever delusions to even notice what was happening, which felt like a blessing considering how Berwald's other patiens had often had trouble bearing with the pain. As soon as he was given a bundle of herbs that the woman had found in the village, he crushed them to a paste that could be applied to the wound after it was cleansed with water. The mother was prepared to use water straight from the village well, but Berwald inisted that it had to be boiled first. While they waited for the water to heat up, Berwald thought he saw the man's eyes flicker open, but even if it was true, it didn't last more than a short moment.

"What's his name?" he asked.

"Mathias," the mother answered. "Our Mathias. My dear son..."

When Berwald rose from his seat a little more than an hour later, his arms and back were sore. He hurried outside and took in deep breaths of fresh air. He had done all he could do for Mathias for the time being. Tomorrow he'd have to change the cloth on the wound and hopefully inspect the rest of the body. He didn't dare continuing today - just as much for the patient's sake as for his own.

Berwald dried of his palms on his coat and decided to find someone to discuss lodging with. He wanted nothing more than to sleep; both the travel and the treatment had tired him. A small group of people had gathered in the square. Some of them could have been peeking into the house. Berwald approached them slowly, and a few backed away, one of them pointing to his sleeves. Only then did he remember that he probably looked like hell, covered in mud and dust and with bloodstains at his wrists. He remained expressionless, which only seemed to further frighten the villagers. Then one, a young woman, stepped forward. She had long, gold-coloured hair and a simple dress - a variety of herbs hung from her belt.

"Hello," she said, "I'm Karen. I take it you're finished in there?"

Berwald nodded briefly. Karen refused to be as intimidated by his glare as the rest and smiled happily as she continued, "We have an empty house a little walk away. News arrived that you'd be coming, so we've let it stand vacant for you. Shall I show you the way?"

"That'd be nice."

And with that, they began walking at a slow pace that Berwald appreciated. He had time to truly look at the village beyond the hasty glances from when he arrived. The houses were not in disrepair and the people looked well-fed. They passed the largest house, which Berwald supposed had to belong to the land-owner. Many of the other villagers would be his _serf_s, working his land in exchange for protection and a farm to live on.

"That's Ulrik's house," Karen explained, pausing briefly. "He's got glass from Germany in the windows. He's a big man." She exhaled sharply though almost inaudibly, and continued.

They arrived at the vacant house after a few minuets. The village had been unexpectedly small. This doorway here was also too low for Berwald's height. He ducked inside and found that there were two rooms. Both were dusty and cold, but those were things that could be remedied. Karen left him alone for a few minutes, but returned soon after with firewood.  
During that time, Berwald didn't move, and his eyes remained fixated on the wall. (The stones were damaged there.) He was hit by something very sudden and powerful, like a punch to his gut, a strange feeling that could have been provoked by homesickness or tiredness. He imagined himself living in that space, day after day after week after month. He didn't know if he'd ever fit in. (The wall leant slightly inwards.) Perhaps, he thought, he'd only be passing through. He could be gone again in a few months. He could stay only for the winter and leave next spring. Maybe he'd go back to Sweden – to Stockholm – but then reality set in and he felt like he had a solid stone for a stomach.

It was a welcome relief to be able to help Karen with the fire instead of worrying. She excused herself shortly after, but Berwald knew that he had plenty to occupy himself with. He had cleaning to do, cooking, he had to deal with the remains of the garden behind the house – and then there was the young man.

Mathias.

Berwald would deal with that tomorrow. He'd deal with everything tomorrow, excerpt for finally cooking a warm meal and sleeping in a proper bed, even one creaky and certainly infested with lice. He could deal with everything tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I hecked some facts & spellings up, but it's all fixed now. _

Tomorrow came, bright and harsh and in the shape of sunlight piercing through Berwalds eyelids, creating glowing patterns until he opened his eyes. He knew he had dreamt something, but couldn't remember anything.

As soon as he was ready, he took his suitcase and headed straight for the house where he knew he was needed. The air was cool but humid. The sun was still low in the sky, barely visible through the shroud of clouds. The farmers had already been awake for several hours. There was plenty of activity in the square - the smith's forge was glowing bright red and a brunet man walked by Berwald with the remains of animals that had walked into traps during the night.

Berwald found the house empty except for Mathias.

He closed the door behind him. Now the room was lit only by the embers and the ray of sunlight that shone through a very small window. He relit the fire and then turned towards the bed, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

Mathias didn't look any different. But when Berwald laid his hand on the man's forehead, he felt a significant decrease in temperature. He then shifted his attention to the wound, cleaning and re-dressing it. Here, too, there was change – the inflammation was no less widespread, but there was no pus, nor any bleeding.

Bewald carefully removed the rest of the cloth that covered his patient's body. A weak groan escaped Mathias when his leg was moved, but otherwise he was silent and most likely uncounsious. Berwald wasn't intimidated by a naked body – he'd seen more than most during his studies, both alive and dead – but he was surprised by what he saw.

Mathias' body was covered in scars, some long and white from age, others still red and fresh. Bruises stretched over his arms and chest in all shades of blue, green and purple. Berwald wondered how exactly the young man had acquired all those marks – certainly not as a farmer. For a while, he stared at Mathias' tanned skin, at the white lines that crossed each other as if in an intricate pattern (a starmap, perhaps, Berwald thought). The embers cast an orange light on the protruding ribs and soft shadows in between them, a warm glow on Berwald's hand as he leant forward. The smell of wood and smoke in the air mixed with the faint scent of salves as he treated the sores and wounds, his hands moving steadily from routine and experience. Berwald enjoyed this part of his work the most. He enjoyed fixing and mending and concentrating exclusively on his work, shutting out the rest of the world. His actions spoke for him - not that he had anything against speaking, of course (he sent a fond thought to the debates he had attended at his former school) but there was something very peaceful about a routine job. Mathias' never moved, but Berwald felt his long, deep breaths and calm pulse and had no doubts that things were looking up.

Once he finished, he realized how his eyes had wandered during the treatment – how he had stared at Mathias' collar bones, the muscles of his arms, his mouth... Berwald tried to ignore the thoughts, but was painfully aware that he had been seconds away from reaching out and _touchin_g Mathias when the door opened and the mother entered the house. Bewald straightened his back and bowed his head once to greet her.

She didn't react. In fact, she acted as if he wasn't there, a strange departure from her ealier behavior. She began cooking by the open fire. Berwald could hear metal clanking and water boiling, and he watched her back as she bent forwards, crouched by the pot. There was no grey in her hair yet. He wondered when she had had her son. She rolled up her sleeves.

"He will recover, won't he?" she asked.

"I think so."

There was a pause. The mood in the house became distinctly heavy and Berwald hear her take a sharp breath.

"How old 's he?" Bewald asked.

She didn't turn towards him when she answered.

"Just turned twenty winters."

"Hmm. Did he get in' fights a lot?"

"...I'd rather not talk about how he got those wounds you've discovered. Just make sure he gets better. That he gets somewhat robust." She stirred the embers for a moment. "I've got a feeling like he'll need it."

Berwald accepted that it would be useless to force conversation any further. Truth be told, he was happier when he could be silent. Once again, he glanced at the cuts and scars covering Mathias. Why wouldn't she say how he had gotten so injured?

With no answers to find in the hut, Berwald covered Mathias up again and left.

* * *

The dust was dancing on the gravel roads as men and women returned from the fields. The dog at the smithy barked and growled and received only laughter in return from the children. At midday, the sound of idle chatter mixed with the smell of food and thin ale as all retreated into their homes to share this most important meal of the day. Berwald sat alone, quite content, in front of the house that he had slept in - a house that had become his own so recently that he had trouble calling it a home, or even his.  
He had helped a boy take care of his skinned elbow on the way, and the child had abandoned his distrust and smiled. Before Berwald could ask about Mathias, though the boy was gone. It was becoming somewhat of a frustrating issue for Berwald: no adults in the village had done more than sneer, sigh or glare upon the mention of Mathias.

(Berwald had wanted to slap himself when he left that house. Now wasn't the time, nor the place, for _those_ emotions that seemed to bring but trouble. But no matter how many times he told himself to _stop_ _thinking_ of that man who would most likely be chasing skirts and getting drunk as soon as he was healthy, the image of his scarred body woldn't leave Berwald's mind. He realized later that he had probably been looking very intimidating on his walk back, hiding his feelings with some stern expression...)

When he saw Karen walk towards him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps she would be more inclined to give him answers.  
She walked slowly like she had no plan or specific purpose in mind. Her head turned from side to side as wide eyes scoured her surroundings for... something. Just as she was about to walk past Berwald, he stood up to draw her attention. She stopped for a moment, nodded, and then continued walking.

"What 's the matter?" Berwald asked. At first it seemed like she had not heard him at all.

"Nothing, I'm just looking for some herbs. A little something to spice up the drink we're brewing."

"I can help," he said, slowly.

Karen waved for him to come along, and the two of them walked along a path that cut through fields of tall grasses and wildflowers. She described the plants that she was looking for, and Berwald crouched down to search for them. He felt the pin-pricks of a thistle on his fingers and paused to pick away the thorns. He watched the drops of blood drip away and disappear into the soil.

"Are you_ injured_?" There was laughter in Karen's voice.

"'s nothing," Berwald said. Slowly, he continued: "Speaking 'f being injured though, whats th' thing with-"

Karen sighed audibly and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mathias," she said.

Berwald nodded.

"I guess someone should have filled you in. It's all history now - stuff that happened seasons before you came. Would you stop glaring so... intensely at me, please?"

"S'rry. 'e was a brawler 'f sorts, wasn't 'e? Had an awful lot 'f muscle and scars."

"Far from it," Karen answered. "He was strong... but, uh, a friendly drunk. Well-liked. Used to wear this little cross around his neck. He was away for a year or so, fighting wars for kings and princes in the south with a band of mercenaries. There were rumors of wealth and looting and since Mathias' family isn't well-off by any means, the rest of us chipped in to get him a proper axe, means for the journey - you know, all those things a poor man like him needed..." She sighed again. Berwald saw the muscles of her jaw tense. "And then we find him, weeks after we expect him back, bleeding and barely conscious, lying in the wayside. No money. Nothing at all. He must have squandered what he had, lost too many fights..." She looked straight at Berwald for the first time since she began speaking. "Nobody knows what happened during that year except for him, but..."

Berwald toyed with a flower in his hand.

"'e let you down."

She wiped some imaginary dirt off on her skirt and nodded.

Out of the corner of his eye, Berwald spotted the herb they were looking for.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Expect fewer updates during the next two weeks while I get used to school again.  
So far, I think I'm learning a lot because of this first fanfic. That's a fancy way of saying that there are a lot of mistakes and stuff to fix all the time and that makes me sad ~(‾⌣‾~).

* * *

A few days passed and Berwald began to slowly establish a routine. He began to feel at peace with the rhythm of the sunsets and sunrises that governed the daily life of the village. After being shown the herbs that grew in the area, he spent time picking and preserving them for the winter. Then hung to dry by the fire or from the wooden rafters, and his house gained an earthy, warm sort of smell, far different from what he usually associated with his trade. Outside, a small garden was beginning to take shape, though it would still be a while before it would bear fruit.  
He treated a sheep that had an infection around its ears and eyes (It wasn't exactly his area of expertise, but he managed). And lastly, there was the homesickness that came and went, steady as the rhythm of night and day.

All in all, he was beginning to settle in.

Then it happened.

Berwald had sat in the dirt of his small field with an elderly man. They had been discussing what crops could be planted in autumn and what help Berwald would need for such a small area when a child came running towards them. It was a girl. Her eyes were bright, and she giggled as she came closer. "Mathias 's up!" she said, "He's aliiive!" Then she ran off again, her braid swinging side to side. Berwald watched her as she disappeared behind the walls of a house further ahead. He excused himself and went to get his bag.

When he arrived at the small house on the other side of the village, children already surrounded the entrance. Some of the stared inside with wide, curious eyes while others were scared and trembling by the edges of the group. Most seemed worried. They all moved aside for Berwald who stood still a moment as to adjust to the half-dark inside. He shut the door behind him.

Berwald's eyes met Mathias' for the first time.

Mathias was sitting upright, gripping the edge of the bed so tightly that his knuckles were white. His head was bowed down, and damp strands of his blonde hair clung to his forehead. When Berwald entered the room, Mathias looked up, and at first, all Berwald saw was the sheer _will_ in his eyes. Will to live.

...And then Mathias began talking.

" 'Ello. My lips are _so_ dry – Can I get some beer or something?"

"I'd-" Berwald began before he was cut off by his patient.

"You're... new, aren't you? I guess it's you I have to thank for all of this," Mathias said, gesturing weakly towards his surroundings.

"You's be right," Berwald answered. He took a step closer, watching for reopened wounds or signs of confusion in his expression. Mathias was still wearing nothing but the cloth he had pulled over his waist. "Your dressing's 'ndone."

Mathias looked downwards to his leg where the bandage had come loose, one end trailing across the floor. "Oh - are you going to fix it up or what?" He attempted to move aside and get his leg back up on the bed, but it was clear that the movement was painful. "Ouch-"

"Stay still."

"You're a man of few words."

"'n you talk t' much," Berwald said slowly as he began to work.

Mathias seemed to ignore the remark. "Kind of weird to have you kneeling on the floor for me, though," he continued, "You don't sound like you're from 'round here. By the way, what's your name?"

"...Berwald. Oxenstierna."

"That's some name."

"Fr'm Sweden."

"You speak the language quite well," Mathias said. He groaned as Berwald grazed the bare wound with his fingers even though it was healing well. "But I guess it's not that different. Oh, here she comes."

The clatter of wooden buckets and the sound of water splashing heralded the arrival of Mathias' mother. She put away the water in the corner of the room and then turned towards the two men. Berwald was just about done with putting on the new bandages. He saw what he thought was hope in her eyes – a twitch of her mouth, something in her eyes – when she looked at her son. Mathias didn't look at her – his eyes were turned down, fixed at the floor, his leg, or Berwald's hands, he couldn't tell. The Dane's grip on the bed had loosened. One hand, he laid flat on the damp surface of the bed sheets, the other... that right hand with its blisters and burns hovered in the air centimeters from Berwald's head as if Mathias was about to touch his hair or face for some reason. Berwald noticed. Then Mathias seemed to have second thoughts and let that hand, too, lay to his side.

For a while, nobody said anything. There was only the silence, the movements of Berwald's hands and Mathias' eyes occasionally finding Berwald's, although both looked away immediately.

Then the mother spoke, her voice harsh.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Mathias?"

Berwald saw Mathias tense as he answered without looking at her.

"I don't know."

"May God have mercy with you – you - " His mother began, but she stopped when she seemed to remember that Berwald was in the room with them. Needless to say, he was a bit confused about the conversation and the suddenly oppressive atmosphere and was relieved that he could excuse himself, having just finished applying the ointment and redressed the wound.

"I should go," he said.

Nobody stopped him. Just as he stood in the door, he heard Mathias call out.

"So remember that beer, alright, Berwald?"

"I'll try," he answered. Were they already on first name basis?

* * *

Berwald kept his eyes at the dirt beneath his feet while he walked home.

His thoughts circled around those eyes and a small gesture that he told himself could have meant anything. He realised that he had gotten his hopes up, a dumb thing to do in his situation. Even though it had felt like it by Mathias' bed, there was simply no way the Dane would have been able to sense those emotions that had grown inside Berwald during the last days.

It was a fool's hope.

And so, the next days passed. The rhythm of sunsets and sunrises continued, and at least during daytime, Berwald felt that he had everything under control. Mathias was better now, his fever receding rapidly, meaning Berwald wasn't needed every day. The one time he visited, Mathias was asleep and Berwald did not wake him (although his hand lingered as he took Mathias' temperature).

He left a cup of borrowed ale on the table.

His garden took shape.

Berwald had Karen over at his house. They sat by a newly cleaned hearth and discussed grain and payment and neighbouring villages with sick sheep. She said that Berwald looked like he didn't sleep well. He agreed. (He had dreamt of black birds and a man's touch and church-bells ringing in the distance.) All sorts of small thoughts seemed to fill his brain, and he moved from task to task as if afraid of standing idle for too long. Then he went to sleep and woke up and the sun rose again.

In need of fresh air and light, he walked downhill, following the town's only road.

He greeted the women who stood in their doors or came back from their work.

He looked up at all the morning sky with all its nuances of orange, yellow and red between the clouds.

Mathias had the sun behind him as he approached Berwald. Its golden glow appeared as an aura around his hair, his head, his limbs – Berwald stood completely still, almost frozen in place as he saw him.

Smiling, Mathias took another slow step towards Berwald. His house was not far away (maybe fifteen steps at most), but even that was an accomplishment for someone who was recently on his deathbed. Mathias ran his fingers through his hair.

"C-could you help me out here?" he asked. Berwald saw how his patient's legs trembled and quickly closed the space between them with a few decisive strides. He draped Mathias' arm around his own broad shoulders and supported him as they headed back.

"Don't strain yours'lf," Berwald said.

"I wanted to try. If anything went wrong I thought you'd help me back." He shrugged. "You know, on one hand, I didn't make it. On the other, I was right."

"Could 'ave left you."

"But you wouldn't."

"...Slowly, now." The grip around Berwald's shoulder tightened momentarily when Mathias almost lost balance. They both paused for a moment before going inside.

Berwald had only seen Mathias inside his dim house. Now, the sunlight allowed Berwald to see all sorts of small details - the eyelashes, the hint of freckles, the place where his dry lips had cracked and the subtle nuances in the colours of his hair, eyes and skin. There was a smile on his lips – a cocky smile, but genuine.

Maybe it's enough, he thought, just watching. Just looking. Then again, it would_ have_ to be enough.

Mathias didn't seem to think anything of the pause.

Soon, he was inside and fast asleep – the heavy, deep sleep that shrouded him from all pain and ill things.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Only one and a half chapters to go, hehe. Meanwhile, in this chapter, footnotes! I'm going to have the last parts up during next week (hopefully) and I'm really starting to look forward to finishing this...  
Havn is what Copenhagen (København) would have been called at the time. It simply means "Habor"._

* * *

The village church was made of grey stone and stood on top of a small hill. Inside, the pews stood empty and Berwald's footsteps echoed under the arched ceiling. It was rather small with only a single piece of ornamentation apart from the altar – a painted epitaph on the western wall. The frame was gold-coloured, but Berwald could not decide whether it was real or just paint. It held three pictures – one large of Christ standing by his grave and two smaller, placed above the first. Sten and Marie Larsen looked at each other, each painted in profile, each with their names written underneath. Their faces and names would be as close to God as possible, their money in the pockets of the church, and Berwald wondered whether their souls were a little closer to forgiveness. He also wondered what they had done to need it.

Three Sundays had passed since the doctor had arrived. He had not been to church yet, having always excused himself with work (Mathias), even though he had plenty of time. This thursday, it had been the architecture and history calling, not... anything else. There had always been too many questions and not enough answers.

He pondered whether these people where the type to suspect someone who avoided church for witchcraft or other such things. While he had found other people who shared his views in Stockholm and Havn, here, here knew he was surely utterly different.

Outside the church there were rows of graves marked by small stones or wooden crosses. There was no fence surrounding the sacred ground, only rocks placed in straight lines as to mark out the perimeter.

The next sunday, the weather was very mild. The church bells rang and the villagers walked by in their finest dress. Berwald didn't follow them; instead, he entered the town square and sat underneath the tree. It was quiet now, and he thought that he was alone. He closed his eyes-

-and heard a familiar voice.

"Morning!"

Mathias waved as he arrived. His walking had improved. There was still a noticeable limp, but was quicker and apparently not in as much pain as before. Soon, he stood in front of Berwald, seemingly eyeing him from top to toe.

"G'morning," Berwald said. "How come you're-"

"Out and about? Not in church? Doesn't matter, I'm feeling better than I have in a long while. Told my mother I was still exhausted because there's something I have to do – want to come with me?"

"Where?"

"Out. I passed out somewhere on the road, right? I'm pretty sure I still had it with me at that point but I wasn't found with it, so I either dropped it or threw it away or something. I'm going to look around where mother said I was."

" 'It'?"

"My axe. Do you have anything better to do? Besides, I'd like to have you just in case-"

Berwald let out a small sigh and nodded. "As long 's you don't exert y'self."

He stood up and followed Mathias' lead.

They walked until the houses grew small in the distance and the trees became more frequent. Large stones laid in the grass, covered in moss and grass, along with branches that had blown of the birch trees and beeches. The leaves would soon turn yellow and gold and all sorts of different shades, but the prospect of staying in that village and seeing the seasons change was no longer as daunting to Berwald as it had been. He glanced at his patient occasionally, slightly worried.

"So," Mathias said, trying to break the silence, "Where in Sweden are you from?"

"Lived west 'f St'ckholm 'nd went t' college there later."

"You're a scholar? I thought you were some – um, nevermind, it's just unusual to have people like you around here where most of us can't read."

"You said you went t' Germany," Berwald said, "That's unusual too." He paused for a moment, then asked: _"Sprichst du deutch?_1."

"_Ein bisschen_,2" Mathias replied. _"Aber ich bin nicht sehr gut...3_I can get by. And I understand '_halt und antreten und recht euch und so weiter_.4'" He smiled, "And the ever-important '_Ich möchte eine Bier, danke'_."5

"'f course," Berwald said. Mathias' vocabulary was most likely very small compared to his own, he thought, but in time they might be able to hold conversations. They walked side by side for a bit. Mathias stopped every once in a while to take a good look around, but nothing turned up.

"So, how'd you even end up out here?" he asked.

With that question, much of Berwald's good mood disappeared. "'s a long story. Could 'sk you th' same."

"That's a long story, too. On the other hand... We've got plenty of time and I'm curious. Wanna trade?"

Berwald was aware that he was far, far to interested in Mathias' story to not say anything, but his throat was still strangely constricted. But, he thought, he could always leave out the most embarrassing details. He slowly gave Mathias a nod.

"Well, you first!" The Dane said, and Berwald stared at him for a moment – the sun had done wonders for his skin, and a lively colour was returning to his face... Then he averted his eyes and instead looked at the landscape before them, the lines of the hills or the paths or the birds, anything else.

"Studied for a while 'n a school f' medicine," he began. "Was a good student. Then I got in a 'fight with a professor an' ind th' end, it was his word 'gainst mine. Don't know if you've noticed, but... I'm not very devout. I believe in m'self and my country, not... God." Berwald drew a deep breath. It was strange to talk so freely about something that personal, but he found that he was also surprisingly comfortable with Mathias. Maybe because he suspected him of sharing his views. The thought was... nice. " 'nyway, th' professor then accused me 'f a lot. Being a heathen, a fraud, a homosexual 'n I got expelled after th' ensuring academics. Took th' discussion too far, I s'ppose... Then thought I might 's well go use my talents. Heard about this place... I think that's th' most I've talked 'n a while."

"Were you?"

The question was short, to the point and utterly confusing for the swede. Mathias waited for a moment before he elaborated, a strange look on his face, "Well, were you? A heathen or any of the... other things?"

"Don't believe in older gods... either. And I was honest. 'nd-" Berwald looked straight ahead "- ...I've never slept with anyone."

A childish giggle escaped Mathias, who covered his mouth with his hand immediately. It could have been of relief or genuine amusement. "Really? I thought the girls would have been all over you with your looks! If you wanna do something about it, I can give you a list of some great german whore-houses and a couple in Havn too...!" He seemed to notice Berwalds discomfort and slowed to a halt. "...Anyway, uh, about that whole story of yours – If it helps I'm glad you decided to come to this side of the country. Really glad. I just hope you didn't do it for the money."

Berwald chuckled at the remark and for a while, they walked in silence again, a comfortable silence this time. He waited for Mathias to start talking by himself, but nothing happened. When the town was no longer visible – when even the church's small tower had disappeared – Berwald raised his voice.

"And your story?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah..." Mathias cleared his throat, "Well, sort of the same thing. A disagreement. I had been fighting and serving with these men for a long while. We were sort of a mixed bag, bunch of danes and germans and a norwegian even, and we were finally going home. Since we'd be splitting up for good in the next town over – I don't know if we can see it from here, maybe on the next hill – we were drinking. So, I get into this... disagreement with a guy, and it becomes a fight. People join in and they don't even now what it was about in the first place and soon everyone has the wrong idea about who did what and such. People start yelling things and before I know it, there's a mob and the friends who are with me are lost somewhere in the crowd. Actually it might not have been very many people, but it felt like it at the time... So I got wounded trying to scare them off and then I just tried running and that got me this far. When you're fighting, you're in this state of mind with no sense of pain or tiredness. That's what I was like at that point- I just collapsed afterwards. Somewhere around... " He looked around before suddenly pointing, "Here! I must have lost Torsvind somewhere around here..."

"...Torsvind?" Berwald asked.

"That's the axe's name. A friend suggested that I name it, and unlike you, I know a bit about the old gods. Tor's wind."6

Now that they had found the right place at last, both men began searching. There was still something unsaid in the air between them, a distinct feeling that neither had told the truth in its entirety. Berwald barely had time to think about this, however, before Mathias called him over.

"It's here, I'm sure..."

Berwald looked over Mathias' shoulder. The bushes before them were a mess of plants and dirt and thorns, but Mathias shrugged and began untangling the branches and brushing the leaves aside. They saw it at the same time – the blade was exposed and gleamed in the sunlight close by.

They both reached for it at the same time.

Mathias' hand brushed against Berwald's, and for a brief moment he felt like all of his being was concentrated in that one spot where warm fingers touched his own. Like time stood still. Then he came back to his senses and let go of the handle so that it could be where it belonged – Mathias' hand.

The young warrior smiled.

* * *

1. ["Do you speak german?"]

2. ["A bit"]

3. ["But I'm not very good"]

4. ["Hold and fall in and line up and so on" (These german drill commands, along with others, were used in Denmark too during late 1700's to early 1800's)]

5. ["I would like a beer, thanks", (There's a mistake - It should be "eine bier"]

6. [Tor, sometimes spelled Thor, is the old nordic god of thunder and war.)


	5. Chapter 5

Mathias crossed the line of small, grey stones and stepped into the graveyard. The morning breeze was slightly cold against his skin, especially his bare feet. He hadn't bothered finding his shoes in the morning. He thought there was something vaguely poetic about it, too - standing there in the graveyard, touching the soil that his ancestors were buried in.

Well, most of them.

He knew he had other ancestors whose bodies were burned or hidden in the hills long before his time. They had served different gods that Mathias had often wished he had known about, but the dead could not sing the old songs and they could not tell him the old stories. Someone else had done that much more recently, and that person's words had echoed in Mathias' head when he wondered what he wanted done with his own corpse. But he didn't want to think of that at the moment.

He thought about a lot of other things, though, and the women who saw him walk through the village remarked to each other that he looked burdened, yet determined. He was headed towards a small house on the edge of town.

A month ago, the nearby field was bare, the rooms were empty and the owner was dead (buried at the graveyard, worms eating him and body turning to earth). Now a new owner had come, life had returned to the house, and when Mathias stepped inside he saw a woman from the next town over leave with her child. He breathed in the smell of herbs and closed his eyes. He was only somewhat aware of the smile on his face, and he thought that it was fitting that it was someone stoic and quiet, someone who saved lives that gave him that strange, fluttering feeling throughout his entire body.

They had been talking more and more.

Mathias had a feeling that his life was taking a turn for the better. He had been _feeling_ better recently, as if something had left his body alongside the blood and bile: something itchy and hot that had constricted his lungs. He could breathe freely again.

Now it was just a matter of courage, and for once not the liquid kind.

"'s there anything?" Berwald asked, his voice coming from deep within the house's shadows.

"I," Mathias said, "I'd like to talk. Can you meet me in a moment? By the river to the north would be the perfect place. I promise I'll bring something to drink and get you drunk for your trouble afterwards."

Before Berwald could answer, Mathias had darted away again. It wasn't long before he rounded a corner and saw own home. It was small (way too small to sustain both him and his mother for very long, Mathias knew - sooner or later he would have to leave the village. Maybe he would work at some other man's farm, maybe in the city - and if all else failed, there would always be wars and a need for those who would fight them). Out of the corner of his eye, Mathias saw the path that led down to the river. A chill ran down his spine, a mix of excitement and dread. He entered the house and found his mother waiting by the heath.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: Lets finish this! This sure has been a learning experience... I think it will be a while before I attempt anything at this length again. And without further ado, it's time for things to get sappy. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"I haven't been entirely honest with you." Mathias voice was shaky, but Berwald saw how he slowly regained control (there was that determination again, he thought, no longer hidden behind all those jokes and the boasting and...)

They sat by the riverside on a grassy hill surrounded by fading wildflowers. Reeds grew in the water, and a noticable current carried twigs and leaves with it. The river was very wide, and Berwald found it calming to look at. It had carved its way through the land, formed soft hills on either side. It had been running, waxing and waning with the seasons since long before he had been born, and it would continue until he was dead. Mathias sat on his right and did not look relaxed at all. Berwald stayed quiet and let him continue.

"I was lucid for a few hours after I was brought home, just before the fever set in. I was sure I was going to die. I was angry. I thought I was too young and that it wasn't fair. Having to let everyone down and then dying just because I had fallen in love – that wasn't fair. So yeah, that's what happened back then. I fell in love with-" He drew a deep breath and looked away "-with the norwegian man. I got to know him and he knew a lot and we had each other's backs – He said he could see spirits and … things. So this day we're all drunk. Too damn drunk. I told him."

Mathias kept talking, but Berwald was still mentally stuck at the first words - "_the norwegian man"_. He felt a rush of oxygen to his brain, a sense of relief coursing through him. Just maybe... Outward, his expression did not change, but he was not aware of it. He just stared while Mathias continued his story, listening more and more closely.

"Everything escalated. I wish I had said it when we were alone or not so drunk or... anytime else really. Didn't help matters that I was making a lot of money – for the village, you know, and some land when I got home – so I wasn't that popular in the first place. Rumor said I was very forceful." Mathias was tense. He toyed absent-mindedly with the hem of his shirt. "I was so angry afterwards. The priest would have called it a 'crisis of faith', I guess. I think it began before – partly the drinking and whoring and killing and partly that episode. I told my mother that I didn't want to be buried by the church."

Berwald was taken aback by these words, too – it wasn't simply a matter of where the body was placed. Far more important things were at stake, and from Mathias' mother's point of view, being buried outside the holy ground was a farewell to ever seeing God, their family and her ever again.

"Instead," Mathias continued – all of the story was spilling out of him, and Berwald doubted he could stop talking even if he wanted. "Instead, I told her that I'd rather be buried out here, in the hills... it's on the other side of town from the church, far away from the holy ground. I used to play here when I was younger. That's why she was so angry. I should have taken those words back."

"You believe now?"

"I believe in something," he said. "I've believed since I staggered out into the world again. Since I saw you face and felt your hands and – shit, this is so sappy. I sound like those girls I used to woo... But now I've been honest." Mathias finally let go of the shirt, but he was clearly still very nervous – still afraid to meet the other's eyes.

"I feel th' same," Berwald said. It was quiet at first, and he was worried that Mathias didn't hear it at all. Slowly, he repeated it once more. "I feel th' same. I'm th' same 's you." All doubts he had had about saying it out loud disappeared when he saw Mathias' face light up in a smile.

Berwald wasn't sure who reached out first, but he felt a hand by his own and their fingers entwining, both of them seeking the heat they had previously only found in brief moments. Mathias looked at their hands, then at Berwalds' face for the first time during their conversation. He apparently remembered something and began to rummage through the grass beside him with his other hand undtil he triumphantly withdrew a flask.

"...I'm not supposed to have this," he said. He uncorked it and drank the first mouthful quickly, then passed it on to Berwald. "It's from Jørgen's stock. He owes me anyway."

Berwald swallowed a mouthful of the surprisingly strong drink. It tasted like summer. The sweet aftertaste stayed with him as they passed the flask back and forth until it was empty, neither of them saying much until Mathias laid back in the grass and Berwald followed suit. He kept staring at Mathias – his suddenly exposed collar bones, the jaw line, the hair – and was reminded of the time when he laid his hand onto a very sick and unfortunate man.

"I've not been 'onest with you either," Berwald said. "Sort 'f. Basically, th' professor I 'ad a dispute w'th was right about all his accusations. Could 'ave mentioned that. Though th' fraud thing 's more nuanced than you'd think."

"You're strange," Mathias remarked. Berwald saw his eyes flicker towards the water and the soft hillsides on the other brink. He sighed lightly. "I could have been lying in the ground right here, right now..."

Berwald squeezed the hand in his, thankful that he would never have to see any bloated corpses or any grave markers in the grass.

Mathias opened his mouth again, and Berwald was sure that he was about to say something uplifting in an attempt to lighten the mood.  
Berwald wouldn't let him.  
He knew that he probably looked scary as he moved towards Mathias and leant in to kiss him, but he didn't care. It was clumsy, teeth against teeth - Mathias was taken by surprise and Berwald had no experience to speak of, yet he was still overwhelmed by the fact that what he had thought impossible was happening. Mathias took over quickly, being the more experienced of the two. It almost turned into a struggle, Mathias pushing and pulling underneath Berwald until he was on top. He paused for a moment as if expecting Berwald to push him off or say something, neither of which happened. Both had grass on their faces and clothes: loose dandelion fluff clung to Mathias hair.

"You know, this more than makes up for what happened to my leg," Mathias said. "...I think you might've been the reason I got hurt." It was barely more than a whisper, easily drowned by the sounds of the river.

"I think you're right," was the answer. The sky had turned a soft shade of grey with a hint of orange at the horizon. Mathias rolled off of Berwald, still holding his hand, still smiling.

Berwald felt as if the whole world laid open before him, or at least the village and it's surroundings. He liked the country, he decided. He looked at the landscape around him and was in love with the hills and the river and the wind – but more importantly, he was in love with the young man beside him, and he was exactly where he wanted to be.


End file.
